


Despair

by evanescentdawn



Series: sam and lucifer [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Winchester Says Yes to Lucifer, Sam is not in a good place, Suicide, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescentdawn/pseuds/evanescentdawn
Summary: Sam doesn’t yes, at first. He fights and trieseverythingbut—It’s not enough.
Relationships: Lucifer & Sam Winchester
Series: sam and lucifer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994149
Kudos: 16





	Despair

Sam’s head-deep in research, papers flown everywhere across the bed.

He squints his eyes to read the current book in his lap, a journal about this person who believes that they talked to the Devil. It’s their third and second last account, and written in enochian _._ Partly the reason why he had even considered reading it and also because he’s desperate.

It was hard to translate but—there are perks to having the Devil in your mind and knowing an angel. So far, Sam hasn’t read anything remotely useful. And knows it’s going to be another dead end, it’s a deep seated knowledge inside of him. 

He already read every lore on Lucifer, the devil, Satan, the Morningstar, Samael and came with nothing and knows that these are not going to help either. But—

The other choice is sitting and waiting for Lucifer to catch up to him, to find him. And that’s not one Sam can take. His dreams are getting worse. One of these angels or apocalypse books must, must—have something. He can’t _not_ do anything and wait for the Devil to come for him. He let Lucifer out but he’s not going to jump start the Apocalypse. He won’t. Sam refuses to, looked up into Lucifer's eyes and snarled: _no._ Not that it did anything to stop Lucifer’s mind on having him as his vessel. 

Lucifer just looked at him back, wearing his own face. Unfamiliar, unsettling, and _too much._ All Sam wanted to do was turn away at him but Lucifer had his fingers curled around Sam’s chin.

Lucifer had sighed, _sad,_ Sam thought, feeling sick and angry bubbling—as he pulled Sam closer and said, softly: **Understand this,** **I am not your** ** _enemy_** **Samuel, I am your friend** like he was talking to a newborn baby like _Sam_ is the one who doesn’t understand. **This is how it was meant to me, you were made for me. You’ll see it soon. Have** ** _faith_** **.**

His eyes were so very soft and _piercing_ , something close to pity, and a flicker of humour. (You think you can defy your destiny? What you were born for? A _human_?) He hated how he felt bare, undone under those eyes.

 _No,_ Sam snarled back, vicious—meant to, but his voice came out weak, small. 

Lucifer said nothing in response. He glanced down at Sam’s knees and slowly raised a brow with a hint of a smile, and somehow, that was much, much worse. 

He would die before he does—before he let the devil take his body and destroy the world with _his_ body— did try but each time Lucifer brought him back. By the dozenth time where Sam found himself gasping in the motel’s bathroom vomiting out the bullet he swallowed, he had kneeled, weak and so, so tired and prayed for hours straight through his sobs. _Why me?_ _Why me?_ And whispered, then, much quieter: _please._ There was deathly silence. (God choose this for you, Sam.) And Lucifer smiled, something dark the depth of his dreams, said **I knew you would come around** **_Samuel_ ** as his fingers ran across his cheek and tip of the spine. Sam did not fight that time, struggle or attempt to spit weak words into his face. He sat, blank eyed, staring into the void as Lucifer pressed cold smiles and colder tender words into his skin. 

He wanted so desperately to pick up the phone that night and call his brother even though they haven’t talked in _days_ and wanted his hear his brother’s voice, just a little moment—that’s all he needed but he couldn’t. Sam didn’t have that privilege anymore.

In the journal, they spend their time talking about how they have been _blessed with the mission to kill her family_ and in detail describes their dreams, the blissed darkness and how they didn’t have to suffer anymore. 

Sam stops, closes his eyes briefly, a twist in his gut, breathes deeply, hands trembling a little before he carries on reading through the lump in his throat.

 _It was cold,_ they write, _felt like the end and I was scared, didn’t understand at first, but, she was_ **_so_ ** _understanding, recognised my suffering and allowed me to_ —

Sam throws the book in his lap across the room. 

That makes the hundred and twentieth book, he thinks bitterly, rising his eyes up the mess of mountains across the room. It keeps rising and somewhere in the back of his mind there’s a tender laugh, wet whisper under his ears: **_Oh Sam_** **_don’t you realise? That mountain over there that you are creating_**. **_It’s your ascendant towards me._**

Sam clenches his eyes and breathes. _I won’t_ , he whispers out loud. Though it’s getting harder to believe that as each moment the coldness shifts closer and the word burns brighter at the tip of his tongue. 

If he _only..._ Sam thinks, reaching into the back of his throat, chasing a taste that is long gone before he realises what he's doing and stops, sick. He takes a deep breath, rubs a hand over his face, and, hesitates before making a decision—fuck him, fuck the devil, he’s not going to _bend_ —and wraps both of his hands around his neck with determination. It’s not his first time going by suffocation. Sam tightens, tears swelling in his eyes, pushing forward despite how much he wants to stop because it fucking hurts and he can’t _breathe_. 

He squeezes tighter, teeth gritting as he feels the life is draining out of him slowly. Resists the urge to fight against the pressure, and the burning in his lungs that is getting too much as he gasps for breaths; keeps pressing, and laughs, hoarse and weak, a sick satisfaction coiling in his stomach. And as his vision blurs, before the darkness takes him, Sam thinks _at_ _least, at least I can have this_ _one thing._

.

Lucifer laughs when he brings him back. Tenderly ran his cold fingers on his neck. **Oh, don’t you learn? You can’t run away from me.**

He tries and tries again despite everything, furiously cleans his skin where Lucifer touches but the marks _don’t go away_ and he keeps gasping to life each time, keeps hitting dead ends with his research. The mountain of books keep rising. And in the depth of his dreams, Lucifer smiles, so pitying, a sharp glint of amusement his eyes, wearing his _own_ face—like he’s trying to reminder him that he belongs to him and he can’t escape what’s to come. And the cold burns sharper each day and it would be _so_ easy, he thinks. So, _so_ easy.

When he does say, Yes, he tells himself it’s a last attempt, a foolish, hopeless attempt against the Devil, _something_. He’s tired, so exhausted when he stands in front of Lucifer in Detoit, but he _fights_ —one last time, one more time before darkness takes him but this time—

—Sam Winchester doesn’t wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Lucifer was the BEST villain in s5. And I miss that.


End file.
